


Thrill of Victory

by lamardeuse



Category: Merlin (BBC) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-04
Updated: 2010-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Bradley, the euphoria of the match begins to fade as soon as the final team photos are taken and they're heading for the locker rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrill of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the United Relief charity football match, May 1, 2010.

For Bradley, the euphoria of the match begins to fade as soon as the final team photos are taken and they're heading for the locker rooms. He's felt as though he were floating on air ever since he walked onto the pitch that afternoon for practice, his brain humming a litany of _holy fuck I'm playing footie in the Old Trafford holy fuck holy fucking fuck_, and he's only now returning to earth. Unfortunately, he's landed with a bit of a thud, and his limbs feel heavy with the sudden loss of adrenaline, sluggish and unresponsive.

 

He scans the crowd one last time, then tells himself to stop being a silly twat. There's no reason to think Colin's one of the thousands of spectators, even if he has a hope of picking out a single person from among them. After all, Bradley hasn't asked him to come, never mind that he'd thought about it, lying in his hotel bed in Cardiff – the mattresses at the new hotel are more comfortable than last year's, but it does nothing to help him sleep – thought about how he could ask Colin to come to Manchester with him at the weekend.

 

It's perfectly mad, of course – they're mates, sure, but there are certain lines you don't cross when it's just the two of you. Drinks together in a pub, dinner out, a movie, a play – those are all fine, especially when you're working, taking a break from the week. But a three and a half hour train ride on a bank holiday weekend to watch one of you play a sport the other couldn't give two shits about – that's leaping right over the bromance line and landing head first in boyfriend territory. And even after knowing him for two and a half years, Bradley still isn't completely sure Colin's interested in having a boyfriend.

 

The truth is, he isn't entirely sure about himself, either. He's always preferred girls, and although he hasn't been averse to a little low-level experimentation with boys – he did go to drama school, after all – he never would have imagined himself getting dewy-eyed over another bloke. Of course, that was before Colin, or perhaps he should say Before Colin, because quite a bit of his life has changed since they met, to the point where it tends to make him feel somewhat wobbly if he spends too much time thinking about it. Colin's even managed to rewrite Bradley's _sense of humour_, for Christ's sake; small wonder it's a little terrifying at times.

 

Other times, such as when he's arsing around with Colin about some in-joke no one else gets, or watching _Life of Brian _for the twenty-seventh time with Colin's shoulder warm against his own, or just sitting around together on the stone wall outside the castle between takes, the sun on his upturned face as Colin reviews Merlin's latest Old English spell, it's brilliant. Bradley's never had a friend like Colin, never had someone who puts up with _all _of him, who laughs freely and often at his antics, who jollies him along when he's feeling sorry for himself, who takes the piss when he starts to gets too serious, who knows what he needs before he even knows it himself.

 

None of this makes it any easier for Bradley to leap, however, and so he's reduced to mooning like a teenager, staring up at the ceiling of his hotel room and wondering if he should just pass Colin a note in sixth form maths. And then suddenly it's Friday, and Colin's been released after his final scene of the day has been shot, and Bradley's left tongue-tied and sweaty-palmed, thinking _this is your last chance, you idiot_, only he doesn't know what to say any more than he did last week or the week before that, or even whether he should say anything.

 

“So,” Colin says, leaning against a wall in the semi-darkness behind the Great Hall set as he watches Bradley fidget, “you going to win one for Arsenal, then?”

 

Bradley huffs a chuckle. “Going to try. With Dwight Yorke and Andrew Cole teaming up again, we’ll be lucky if we manage to pull it off.”

 

Colin raises his eyebrows and pokes out his lower lip, and Bradley's gaze strays to it, helplessly. “Right, old Dwight and Andrew. Good lads,” he says, a twinkle in his eye.

 

Bradley rolls his eyes. “Never mind. I forgot I was talking to a Philistine.”

 

“Whatever, man,” Colin says good-naturedly. “You're going to be amazing.” His hand rises, then dips a little, as though there are two different people vying for control of it. Finally, it rises again and squeezes Bradley's shoulder, and Bradley goes hot all over in a wholly inappropriate fashion.

 

“You – erm,” Bradley begins, his mouth acting independently of his brain, “Colin, d'you think –”

 

“Yeah?” Colin asks softly, watching Bradley's face as though he's about to impart the wisdom of the universe. His hand's still on Bradley's shoulder, making it nearly impossible for Bradley to think clearly.

 

“I mean, if you wanted to,” Bradley continued, and fuck, what is he saying? “That is, maybe –”

 

“Bradley!” a voice calls from inside. “Bradley, where are you?”

 

Shit, bugger, bollocks, shit. Colin lets go of Bradley's arm, and the spell is broken. “I – I have to go,” he manages, throat suddenly dry.

 

Colin watches him a moment longer, then nods and steps back. “Yeah,” he says again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, have a great weekend, alright?”

 

“Sure,” Bradley manages, “yeah. You too,” and then they scream for him again and he turns and heads back to the set, feeling like a tremendous, cowardly git.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley's showered and  is just pulling up the zip on his denims when Tim Lovejoy claps him on the shoulder. “Oi, James, you comin' to the pub with us?”

 

“If you think it's safe.”

 

Lovejoy guffaws. “Can't guarantee that, mate,” he says, “but the beer's top notch.”

 

“Oh, well then, what's a little beating from a crazed horde of angry United fans?” Bradley shoots back, and Lovejoy laughs harder and whacks him again.

 

He's pulling on his t-shirt when his mobile vibrates against his thigh, startling him. He was planning to ring his father to let him know about the match, but perhaps Dad beat him to it. When he digs it out of his pocket, though, he sees it's a text, and his father wouldn't know how to send a text message if you held a gun to his head.

 

_congratulations! told you youd be amazing._

 

Bradley grins. _howd you get the results so quickly? _he sends back to Colin.

 

_you get a pretty good view of the scoreboard from third row centre field,_ Colin replies.

 

Bradley stares at the screen for a good ten seconds before his thumbs obey him sufficiently to tap out: _you came to the match?_

 

_got it in one,_ Colin texts back. Bradley's heart starts hammering against his ribs as though it's seeking its freedom.

 

It takes him three tries to manage _where are you now? _without mistakes.

 

_dont exactly know,_ Colin texts back. _heading back to the rail platform, i think. shouldve left a trail of bread crumbs, this place is bloody massive._

 

Bradley’s heart is now doing somersaults. _youre not leaving_.

 

_sure, youre probably off to the pub with the lads, yeah? just wanted to let you know i was cheering 4 u._

 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Bradley’s snatched up his strip – can’t leave that behind – and is sprinting for the door. He nearly collides with Lovejoy on the way out.

 

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll see you later at the pub!” he yells, still running.

 

“You don’t even know where we’re going!”

 

Bradley yanks open the door. “Where are you going?”

 

“The Marble Arch!”

 

“Right!” Bradley calls, waving as he disappears.

 

As soon as he’s halfway to the platform, he realises he’s made a huge bloody mistake; the crowds are more difficult to wade through than treacle in January, and he’s searched left and right, high and low and is despairing of ever finding Colin when he catches a glimpse of a familiar face about fifteen yards away. He shouts Colin’s name, but Colin doesn’t hear him, instead turning the opposite way to look down the track where the train is approaching.

 

Shit. “Colin!” he yells again, edging closer, weaving and darting through the jostling crowd. “Colin!” And then, summoning every lesson he ever learned about speaking from the diaphragm: “OI, MERLIN!”

 

A good dozen or so people turn at that, along with – thank Christ – Colin. He frowns, scanning the crowd, and Bradley waves frantically, hoping to catch his eye. When Colin’s gaze settles on him, it’s like the sun emerging from behind clouds, everything suddenly too bright to focus on properly, and Bradley blinks at him, thinking _oh fuck_,_ I'm far worse off than I thought, aren't I._

 

From there it's a lurching stumble to close the distance, and when they finally latch onto one another, hands clasping wrists as though they're shipwreck survivors in choppy seas, it's like a circuit's been closed, and Bradley feels the energy humming through him as he tugs Colin closer.

 

“You came,” Bradley says, and Colin nods and lifts his chin.

 

“Yeah, I did,” he says, almost defensive, and the look in his eyes is more of a physical blow than the shot from Jaap Stam that sent him flying. It jams the air tight in Bradley's lungs, and it's as though they slip into Merlin time, the whole universe slowing around them. “Had an odd notion you wanted me to.”

 

“I didn't know how to ask,” Bradley admits, then swallows. “But yeah, I wanted you to come.”

 

Colin's gaze is unflinching, but it softens a fraction with something like relief. His fingertips stutter against Bradley's pulse point, making him shiver. “So,” Colin says, “what now?”

 

By way of answer, the train blasts its horn, making the crowd cheer in jubilant response, and Bradley's galvanised into motion. “C'mon,” he yells, pulling Colin along, fighting the current of people trying to board the train.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

By the time they get back to the players' lounge and locker room, it's deserted, everyone long since departed for the pub. Colin lets go of him and Bradley forces his own hand to unclench, surprised at the stiffness he finds there. It's amazing Colin still has any circulation in his hand at all.

 

“This is brilliant,” Colin says, turning slowly. “Not smelly and dingy like I was expecting.” When Bradley snorts, Colin shoots him a look. “Don't laugh. I was terrified I'd get flashbacks to fourth form P.E. class.”

 

Bradley forces himself to take a step closer, his heart hammering. “And what was in fourth form P.E. that gives you such nightmares?”

 

“Not a what, a who. There was a bruiser like that bald bloke who kept mucking you about. Only a good bit smaller and built like a tank.”

 

“And what happened in fifth form?”

 

This time Colin takes a step closer. “Hit my growth spurt. Oh, I was still skinny, but at least now I could outrun him. His legs were pretty short.”

 

Bradley takes the last step, bringing them within reach of one another again, and places careful fingertips on Colin's breastbone. He stares at the place where they're touching, watches Colin's chest rise and fall. “Colin.”

 

“Yeah,” Colin murmurs, his own hands settling with equal care on Bradley's hips. His touch feels hot even through the thick layer of denim, or maybe that's just Bradley's reaction, and oh, fuck, who cares?

 

Colin's mouth is just as marvelous to kiss as Bradley thought it might be, that full lower lip just as suckable (_is suckable a word?_ he wonders hazily), and it's not long before he's pushed Colin back against the nearest solid surface and is pressing up close against him, using Colin half for support because his knees are wobbling rather alarmingly.

 

Colin chuckles against his mouth, and Bradley pulls back a fraction to see what's prompted it. “S'nothing,” Colin says, words slurred from kissing, “I just never thought a footballer shoving me into the lockers could be so much fun.”

 

Bradley loosens his hold, mortified. “Christ, I didn't mean –”

 

“Bradley, Bradley, I'm taking the mickey,” Colin says fondly. “Relax.”

 

Bradley presses his forehead against Colin's. “Look, I just played in front of thirty-five thousand football fans, and now I'm snogging you in the United locker room after fantasising about it for – fuck, far too long to be anything but pathetic, and you want me to relax?”

 

Colin grins. “So how long is far too long?”

 

“Shut up,” Bradley says, and goes back to shoving Colin against a locker.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley never does make it to the pub.

 

“But you should go,” Colin says for the dozenth time. “The booze-up afterward is half the fun, isn’t it?”

 

Bradley pushes Colin down onto the hotel room bed, tugs his t-shirt up over his head and flings it away. “This is much more fun,” he answers for the dozenth time, leaning down to lick one of Colin’s tight little nipples.

 

“Well,” Colin says, breathless, hand flying to the back of Bradley’s head to hold him there, “as long as you’re sure.”

 

“Hmmmm,” Bradley says, and Colin bucks under him in response.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Colin says, while Bradley’s still trying to find his brain after it leaked out through his ears, “maybe I should quit _Merlin_.”

 

“What?” Bradley asks, the words sending a sharp, irrational spear of panic through him before he turns his head and sees the mischievous twinkle in Colin’s eyes.

 

“Well, I heard they’re making another spin-off to _Footballers’ Wives_,” he says, grinning as he sits up and straddles Bradley. “And I’ve always wanted to wear diamonds.”

 

“You would have a much nicer wardrobe,” Bradley concedes, hands skimming up Colin’s thighs.

 

Colin leans down and bites Bradley’s collarbone. “Yeah? You want to see me in a spangled evening frock, d’you?”

 

Bradley’s hands move to cup Colin’s arse. “Prefer you dressed like this, I think,” he says, and Colin chuckles and kisses him, the laugh turning to a groan as Bradley’s finger glides down the crease. Bradley gasps as Colin grinds down against him, both of them already half-hard again.

 

“God,” Bradley breathes, “d’you really want –”

 

“Yeah,” Colin whispers, lips tickling Bradley’s neck. “Too soon?”

 

“No,” Bradley says hastily, “it’s just – I don’t have anything.”

 

Colin lifts his head and kisses him, his tongue tracing Bradley’s lips. “I imagine we can find a chemist’s somewhere,” he says, and Bradley whimpers into his mouth at the thought of – God, God –

 

“Christ, alright, then, let’s,” Bradley says, pushing at Colin because they have to get dressed _now_ and fetch supplies, because he could be inside Colin _right now_ and yeah, chemist’s, let’s _go – _

 

But Colin presses him back on the bed with a surprisingly strong hand and shakes his head. His smile turns into the sweet, affectionate one that Bradley always fancied was reserved for him alone; he now suspects he was right about that, and that’s even more of a rush than standing on the pitch at Old Trafford while the crowd’s roar washes over him like water.

 

“We’ve got time, now,” Colin soothes, palm rubbing slow circles over Bradley’s chest as his hips begin a slow, sinuous dance. “We’ve got time.”


End file.
